


The Nearness of You

by StrongGerm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is one buff boi, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Heaven, Heaven & Hell, Heaven vs Hell, Hell, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22864273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongGerm/pseuds/StrongGerm
Summary: AU where Aziraphale was one hardliner boi before he went down to Eden. Absolutely loyalty is top priority, except he just couldn't figure out what was pulling at his chest.Then Hell decides to take revenge, and when Aziraphale comes face to face with a certain demon...Well, let's just say his priorities get seriously messed up.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. Around the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I read [one tumblr post](https://whatawhumpyworld.tumblr.com/post/184228657374/character-in-a-fight-scene-restrains-their) and this whole thing popped into my head. I don't even know if this is like a lowkey sexual thing or an actual fight but oh well I suppose we all love a juicy- I MEAN VIOLENT fight, right ;)

They met once, briefly. Just the brush of an eye contact, a flash of gold against blue--probably an accidental one--and then he was gone.

Aziraphale didn’t remember him, the first time. He was too busy training, fulfilling his duties as Principality: he was to protect the Almighty’s future creations (he had not been told what humans were yet), and to teach them.

But since they were not created yet, he was simply charged with training duties.

He trained, every moment he could spare.

He would not fail the Lord.

* * *

He fought valiantly in the War. 

He struck them all Down without so much as a moment’s hesitation. Angels who rebelled against the Almighty, who seeked to give more to the world than God had in mind, were no angels at all. It hurt to cast them Down, but the hurt would go away once he remembers what casting angels Down is _for:_ the purity of Heaven, and the essence of Good.

And _yet_.

There was something amiss. Ever since the War, he felt like a part of him was mourning. Like he had lost something important.

 _But why would I not know what that_ thing _is?_

It troubled him like a loose thread on a sweater, one he did _not_ know how to fix. All Aziraphale could do was keep it to himself: he was created to be strong, to be the staff to lean on. He simply could not, and _would_ not, fail the others, just because he was having problems with his thoughts. Especially when he was part of the Army: he needed to remain vigilant in case the demons decided to take revenge. There was no time, or indeed, space, for emotional support groups.

He _must_ keep it to himself.

* * *

A Barrier was created. Along the borders of Heaven, where there used to be ether, a wall of Holy Fire now burned. It would not scorch any angels, but it was said that any demon who tried to climb the wall would be gravely wounded.

Aziraphale was sent to guard it. Along with three other Principalities, they were each assigned a (newly-created) Orientation; he was the Angel of the Eastern Gate. (Somehow he didn’t get a promotion to become a Power, but it didn’t really matter. Absolute loyalty and obedience was top priority, in Aziraphale’s opinion.)

Though, if he was completely honest, he _was_ a little bit scared. This was his first real assignment: to guard the place where humans (they now had a name) were to be created. And while he wanted to excel at his job and prove his worth, he was also worried that he would not live up to expectations, considering this job was supposedly done by Powers.

A million questions drifted into his mind as he stood guard at the Gate: _What are the demons of Hell like? Do they resemble their past selves? Do they still have memories of their time in Heaven? Are they going to be stronger?_ … the list goes on and on.

But there was one question Aziraphale dared not ask himself, one question that he knew, if he even dared to contemplate it, it would probably make him abandon his post:

_Would they have found something to kill angels? Something that works like… Holy Fire, but on angels?_

These thoughts ricocheted around his chest like pinballs, volatile and capricious, threatening to take over at any moment. But Aziraphale gave them no notice: he simply squeezed them all into a locker and threw away the key, like that loose thread in his heart. He _must_ remain vigilant.

_Duty comes first. Questions later._

* * *

Aziraphale saw them just as the alarm sounded. He was standing outside the Gate when it happened, nervous and muttering under his breath on how he had no weapons. Legions of demons were coming up to take revenge against Heaven, and _he had no weapons._

Apparently, _everyone_ had thought the newly-Fallen angels would take more time to recover. _A million-light-year dive into a pool of sulphur! They'd take ages just to get back up!_ Michael was no exception, taking the liberty to assign nothing but some new uniforms for the Principalities.

But one look at the demons struggling to come up, and Aziraphale could already see that they were much better prepared: swords and daggers hung from their belts, many had bows slung on their back and quivers full of arrows; some even had larger weapons, like axes and spears.

It was evident that the four Principalities would be outmatched very soon.

A small flame ignited then, in Aziraphale’s chest, dancing into every fibre of his being. Any responsible superior would’ve given them more than enough weapons, in case of anything. Yet Michael had elected to “save resources”, and chose the risky route instead. And of course, to Heaven, there was _technically_ no real consequence. But to Aziraphale, it was quite obvious that he, along with his colleagues on their respective Gates, would all soon become martyrs.

He knew he would have to fight bare-fisted. There was not enough time to find a weapon by this point: from the way the army of demons were charging up to Heaven, their voices already distinctly audible-- it wouldn't take them long to arrive. The Holy Fire slowed down their progress, of course, but it was no excuse for Aziraphale to not be ready.

He could only hope that he would be able to fend off the first few demons; or in other words, if reinforcements didn't arrive in time, he would 100% be (metaphorically) toast.

The fire in him threatened to take full control, but he doused it out and shoved its ashes into a corner instead.

Now was not the time for questions (or complaints). Now was the time to repel, and protect.

* * *

The first demon arrived within a matter of seconds. He had sleek black wings and auburn hair, his eyes shining bright with a venomous glint. He had a slight figure, and his rather serpentine movements helped him move much faster than the other demons.

He was even faster than Aziraphale. Before he could react, the demon’s leg hit Aziraphale square and fair on his chest, making him lose his balance and fall over backwards.

Thankfully, Aziraphale’s senses kicked in just in time, and he rolled away before the demon could fall on him and deal more damage.

He knew that his opponent would need time to get back up, so he spread his wings and took to the skies. He hoped it would buy him some time and bring the fight to the air: he had always been better at aerial combat.

That hope didn’t last very long, however. The demon was as fast as lightning, and he followed him without missing a beat. But instead of chasing Aziraphale any further, he simply flew in front of the angel, threw some punches, and disappeared.

Dazed for a few seconds, Aziraphale was confused as to why the demon had done that… until he felt legs wrap around him from behind.

 _Oh, bugger_. 

He had exactly one split second to recognise the move before he was thrown face-first into the ground.

If angels had lungs then, his breath would’ve been knocked out. (And his nose probably broken, too.) _Damn it,_ he thought, _the first lesson at the Academy and I forgot it--_

His thoughts were abruptly cut short when he felt a sudden pressure on his back: someone was using their entire weight to trap Aziraphale. He tried his best to struggle against the attacker, but all he got in response was the cool kiss of a blade put dangerously close to his throat.

“So, _Aziraphale_ ,” the red hair next to him identified its owner-- _that_ demon. But his tone, the way he drawled out _Aziraphale_ : it made the angel’s blood run cold.

 _How_ dare _he? How dare he, a lowly demon, speak the name of an angel, a holy being?_

Aziraphale wanted to use his voice and speak. To curse the demon back to Hell. But he was not an idiot, and he quickly realised that any movements would probably jeopardize his life right now. All he could do was stare stubbornly into the ground.

“I’ve met you before, you know,” the demon said, his smirk so obvious one could _hear_ it. “Little Principalities, always _following orders_ ,” he jeered. “What a _pleasure_ to meet you again.”

Aziraphale made no move to acknowledge the demon’s remarks.

He averted his eyes so he could look as far away as possible. The demon’s hair obscured part of his vision, but it was still a nice view from the East gate. And if that was how he was going to die, defending Heaven from some filthy bastard--well, at least it would’ve been an honourable death.

_Wait. Hold on._

_The hair. Long enough to cover my eyes. Long enough to-_

Aziraphale’s mind clicked. Suddenly, he knew how to get out of this. 

He pretended to struggle, while in reality he was really moving his arm closer and closer to the demon’s hair. Then when it just touched a bit of the hair--

He yanked as hard as he could.

The demon’s grip on his neck immediately loosened. As he cried out in pain, Aziraphale quickly used the opportunity to throw him right onto the Gate, as if the demon was no more than a large hammer. (He had never been so grateful for his enhanced vitality in his entire life.)

Knowing the demon would probably give a fast response, he wasted no time in picking up the dagger dropped on the floor and propelling himself towards the Gate; and slammed into the demon just as he was getting away.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be menacing. He glared straight into those sickly yellow eyes, using the tip of his blade to lift the demon’s chin. He gave up on his control over the anger and disgust in him: opting, instead, for them to be completely exposed on his face. But the demon, undaunted, stared straight back into Aziraphale's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and-- the blasted demon started _snickering_.

Aziraphale tried to maintain his stern expression.

“Is that all?” the demon grinned, his face as complacent as if his back wasn’t literally sizzling with Holy Fire right now. “You don’t scare me, you little sssshit,” he paused and drew himself to his full height. “I am a _ssssstarmaker_! _I was one of the Virtuesss_!” the demon snarled, his voice full of venom.

_One of the Virtues._

_Oh. Oh God._

For a split second, Aziraphale was rendered completely speechless. He knew exactly what that meant: if the demon had remained in Heaven, Aziraphale wouldn’t even have been worthy enough to talk to him. And now...

The knife point began losing its threat on the demon’s neck. Suddenly, Aziraphale wasn’t so sure of his intention to kill an ex-Virtue anymore. _What if he’s still as powerful as he was before the Fall? What if his ranking was still somehow valid, and I wouldn’t be able to kill him? What if…_

All the questions he’d locked away burst into his mind once again. The abrupt incursion of such a large piece of information made them surge back to life and pulled hard on his heart’s loose thread; they messed around his brain, made him forget that he had let his guard down.

Which was a mistake.

The demon did not miss a single beat, and was taking full advantage of this. His hands began to move, his fingers impossibly nimble, shaping an invisible something that seemed to be some sort of sphere. By the time Aziraphale noticed, a triumphant grin had already crept onto the demon’s face.

But when the demon looked like he was ready to (or was supposed to) strike, nothing came. All that arrived, in a manner of speaking, was a mixture of shock and dismay on his face.

_He’s just realised he’s lost his powers._

It was like watching someone get murdered. Seeing the demon look as devastated as he was right there and then, Aziraphale had the inexplicable urge to pull even harder at the loose thread in his heart and invite the demon to sit and talk (and have tea): as if they weren’t literally locked in a deadly combat position right now, their faces only a few inches apart, their legs pressed tight against each other; as if the demon hadn’t just told Aziraphale about his previous ranking.

Though in reality, of course, Aziraphale did the exact opposite: he pinned the demon back to the Gate, and pressed the dagger hard against his throat once more. His heart might be a soft jumble; but he still knew his duty.

And this time, when the fire scorched the demon’s wings, tears fell from his eyes.

Aziraphale flew a bit higher so that it looked like he was the taller one. “ _Were._ ” he said. “You _were_ a starmaker.”

“Well, not anymore,” he continued, giving his best shot at an intimidating look. “How dare you mention my name? You’re not even worth the clothes I'm wearing.”

The demon shot him a deadly glare as soon as the words left Aziraphale. The two locked eyes, both refusing to give in to each other. “You’re a pathetic, faithless creature,” Aziraphale spat as he pushed his dagger closer to the demon’s throat, close enough to feel the pounding in his neck. “And I--” 

_I will kill you now._

Somehow, the words got lodged in Aziraphale’s throat. No matter how hard he tried, it still seemed... _wrong_ , to kill the demon. Even though, well, he _was_ a demon.

It was almost as if his body was telling him that this demon was part of _himself_ , part of that loose thread.

_But why?_

The question echoed in Aziraphale’s head, but it was too time-consuming to think of the reason now: the demon was going to be confused very soon. Right now, the demon was pressing his head as close to the Gate as possible, with his eyes screwed shut, his brows furrowed: as if he were a sinner repenting.

 _Begging for God’s mercy_. 

Another thought echoed in Aziraphale’s mind. He tried to push them away like all the other times. _Focus, focus! You can’t lose the momentum!_ “...And...and...I would suggest you to go now...” the words tripped out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

_What in God’s name, Aziraphale?_

He started to loosen his grip; he let his body control his movements for once, instead of the chaotic mess that was his brain. “...before reinforcements arrive.”

The demon looked up so swiftly and gave Aziraphale such a _look_ of gratitude and so many other things (he couldn’t make them all out yet), that he almost thought, for a split second, that it was exactly the kind of Love Heaven had been teaching to angels. 

But as soon as Aziraphale let go of him, the demon fell to the floor. He’d forgotten how much damage the Holy Fire could deal, and now, without the slightest warning, the reality of it was hitting him hard. 

The loose thread in Aziraphale’s chest twisted and burned when he laid his eyes on the demon.

_Why? Why do I feel like this?_

Well, it was enough reason to know why, just by taking one look at the demon’s back. The wings took most of the damage; but where the demon’s body touched Holy Fire, angry red scars stood out, bleeding non-stop. His raiments were like cracked soil, dark stains of blood drawing irregular patterns on the cloth.

Guilt tore through Aziraphale; guilt that he could not understand. He felt bad for inflicting the pain, but he wasn’t supposed to be like this: he was supposed to be a warrior! He was trained to, and had never felt, any guilt or regret in his heart before. Not when he’d first defeated his opponent, not when he’d thrown his first punch...not even when he'd first knocked someone out cold.

And now, what was _this_? This pathetic--Mercy? Pity?--that drove him to let a filthy, lowly demon go? If it had a name, it would’ve been even better, because then, at least, he could learn to label it and shove it away. 

But it didn’t have a name.

And Aziraphale could only watch, frozen in place, as the demon staggered to his feet, and later--less like _flew_ and more like _fell--_ down the Border without so much as a backward glance.

* * *

He didn’t fight much after that. Or at least, he didn’t remember fighting anymore after that. Word was that the Almighty had intervened, and blasted the demons back to Hell with a blow so powerful that many angels had lost their entire memory of this battle. 

Aziraphale was no exception. He could no longer remember any assaults; only scant fragments of emotions. Whenever he tried to find the images to explain those emotions, or find out why he kept picking at that one loose thread in him, all he would discover was that everlasting confusion. (...and longing?)

And every now and then, he found himself unwilling to train at the Academy. Something in him told him that his training had led to a close life-and-death thing, that part of himself he had almost lost; the… _that_ thread.

 _What? What did I almost lose?_ He would ask himself.

And his mind would give no answer.

* * *

When Earth and the humans were finally created, Aziraphale was sent as a Principality to guard it. Gabriel gave him the flaming sword, and told him that if he excelled at his job, on the eighth day of stationing at Eden, the Almighty would visit him and consider an offer for a promotion.

And so Aziraphale went. 

But to his dismay, the more he stayed in Eden, the less he fancied the prospects of a promotion. It was that strange _thread_ in his heart again, telling him to stop using violence, that it would be a mistake to be promoted; making him hesitate every time he thought there was a threat on the humans… in the end, even persuading him enough to give away his sword: his last hopes of getting any promotion. 

He was a wretched mess.

When the serpent came up beside him to…”talk”, Aziraphale’s mind was torn into two parts. One half of him was screaming, _It’s him! He’s alive!_ with _joy,_ as if he had once known demons. Ridiculous: he had never even laid his eyes on any demon, why would he think that?! (And there was _no way_ he would let this side tug at that loose thread: who knew what kind of horrifying, yawning chasm it would reveal?)

Meanwhile, the other half was either panicking, going, _Oh my God, it’s a demon! What do I do?_ or stressing all the protocols drilled in Heaven, all the definitions of demons, and all one should do in the face of one: smite them.

_No, are you crazy?_

The two sides battled for control, and he ended up missing what the demon had said. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he blurted out.

_Stupid! What was that?_

“I said, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon,'”

“Oh,” Aziraphale had to force his mind to concentrate on the present. “Yes, _yes,_ it did, rather.” he said, and quietly hoped that was the end of the interaction. The conversation itself was already violating a dozen protocols--Aziraphale had had them all memorised. If this continued, it wasn’t going to be long until he expected he would just…malfunction, or…something like that.

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me,” the demon continued. “First offence and everything.”

Aziraphale could not help but look him in the eye. A part of him wanted to tell him off like a little child. In hindsight, that _was_ probably why he had turned to face the demon in the first place.

But when their eyes met, something sparked in him; stopped his rational mind from working. Pulled _hard_ at the loose thread. It was like being striked by lightning--and he was fairly sure the demon felt it too, though to be honest, he wasn’t very accustomed to reading slitted pupils then.

But then the demon had taken that leap of faith and said: “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway,”

And that was the last thing he’d expected the demon to say. Still trying to quell the warring two sides in his mind, all he managed to say was something as lame as, “Well, it must _be_ bad…”

“Crawly,” the demon said, and _smiled_.

_A demon smiling at an angel…?!_

Aziraphale’s mind started to short circuit. He could not handle so many unexpected things at once. _Especially_ not when they all made the thread come loose faster and faster. “Crawly,” he repeated, and the syllables rolled off his tongue as easily as if they were already ingrained in him by design.

_Get a grip on, Aziraphale!_

It felt like waking from a dream, realising he should be continuing his sentence. “...otherwise, you wouldn’t have tempted them into it,” he finished, already short circuiting enough to forget that he was smiling.

And, well, the rest was history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay CALM DOWN guys I originally planned this as a one-shot thing but obviously things got out of hand and now I feel like I have to end this properly. 
> 
> So there will be a chapter two. Someday in the future.
> 
> Meanwhile I took most of my fight sequence from watching WWE's men and women wrestling, you can find their youtube channel [here](https://www.youtube.com/user/WWEFanNation), and the song lyric in the title comes from Ella Fitzgerald's ["The Nearness of You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhaCNIpAnPs).
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://supermutantgerm.tumblr.com) where I have occasional frantic bursts of reblogs. Of other people's posts.


	2. The 'Ever After'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale take a midnight stroll Post-Apocalpse and figures out some things. Much fluff ensues.

_January, 2020_

It’s cold. But not as cold as a few centuries ago. Not even close.

Crowley finds himself enjoying the warm feeling this particular evening brings, despite the fact that the current real-feel temperature is -10°C. Naturally, it has absolutely nothing to do with Aziraphale beside him at all.

It feels nice to have a change of scenes, strolling along the Thames. He and Aziraphale are currently reminiscing on the times when the river had still flowed slowly enough for the glimmers of ice to form a solid layer, on which humans would hold Frost Fairs.

“Humans,” Crowley marvels. “Always making a living out of whatever’s at hand.”

Aziraphale stares at him.

“Crap, did I just say that out loud?” Crowley asks, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

“Yes, you did,” Aziraphale says, trying to look annoyed and failing spectacularly. “I was just talking about how they had lovely tickets given out at the 1814 one-- the one you missed.”

Crowley attempts to fake nonchalance. “Ah, yes, I slept through that one--”

“Quite rudely, may I add.”

Crowley hesitates to respond for a moment, then decides to risk a bit of vulnerability for once. Hell _has_ been off his back since the-Armageddon-that-didn’t-happen anyway. They won’t be watching. He sighs, “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

Aziraphale stops walking and really _stares_ at Crowley this time.

“What?” Crowley asks, feeling like the angel is in the process of undressing him with his eyes (not that he hasn’t daydreamed about this before).

“You’re changing,” Aziraphale comments. “About time, too.” he adds, as an afterthought.

“What do you mean, ‘about time’?” Crowley exclaims, feeling half the urge to laugh at just how ridiculous this sounds.

“I mean you’re finally feeling it, too.”

“Feeling what, exactly?”

“The pressure,” Aziraphale replies, resuming his walk. “It’s starting to lift.”

Crowley thinks about it for a while. He rewinds all his memories of their past: all the times he, or Aziraphale, had pulled back because of that unspoken terror, the fear that was in every clink of their glass and every smile at their counterpart; and realises that Aziraphale is right. For the first time in 6000 years, neither of their Head Offices are watching them; and for the first time in 6000 years, Crowley feels like he can finally breathe in the night air with all its serene grace.

Perhaps he _is_ taking more bold steps now. “Maybe,” he says.

They walk for another few minutes in peaceful silence.

A blast of cold wind comes blowing frost into their face, rudely interrupting their wordless conversation. “Brrr,” Crowley can’t help but shiver a bit. One can only ever choose either style or warmth, and even when he knew tonight was going to be cold, there was no way the demon would’ve put on a down jacket just to look like a depressed snowball.

“My dear, you’re wearing too little again,” Aziraphale frowns, a small lick of fire already ignited in his hands.

“Here,” he says, holding the fire closer to Crowley. “Better?”

Crowley can’t exactly feel the heat, but he says “Better,” anyway.

“No, you’re not feeling warmer.”

_Damn, he really does know me._

The angel motions to hand the fire to Crowley, who can’t help but take an instinctive step back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, his hands raised in slight defense, a familiar fear rising in the back of his throat. “Is that...Holy Fire?”

Aziraphale looks down as if he’s forgotten about that significance. “I don’t know,” he sounds just a bit annoyed. “Does it really matter?”

“What-- of _course_ it matters! Just because it doesn’t kill me doesn’t mean it won’t hurt!” Crowley raises his shirt just enough to reveal an edge of the scars beneath. “Look!”

He is suddenly extremely grateful that Aziraphale does not have night-time vision.

Aziraphale sucks in a breath, and he watches as the real worry creeps into Aziraphale’s face, replacing the previous ease in his shoulders; even though Crowley has only shown a bare corner of his scars.

“When did you get this?” the angel asks, his tone seriously concerned, almost angry. (Crowley has never seen Aziraphale truly angry before. Frustrated, maybe, but never _really_ angry. Not like the edge that has just slipped into his voice.) It sounds as if Aziraphale was planning to assassinate whoever left these scars on Crowley.

But... wouldn’t he know? Initially, Crowley thought the angel was just having trouble retracing memories that far back. It’s normal to have memory problems when your body is 6000 years old.

But Aziraphale is not one to forget such important details. “You… really don’t remember?” Crowley asks, confusion plain on his face.

Aziraphale responds with a blank and horrified glance.

_He really can’t remember it._

_Why? Why is this memory gone?_ Crowley speculates that something must have happened after the battle, but he refrains himself from asking these questions. They can be saved for another drunken night at the bookshop.

For now, he takes a deep breath in, and musters whatever courage he has in his body. “Aziraphale… _you_ gave me these scars,” he says. The thought was loud and clear in his mind; but it ends up coming out hushed and vague, happily betraying just how scared he is of the angel’s reaction.

 _He’s so going to hate himself for this. For another_ century _, at least._

_Ngk. I don’t want him to blame himself._

Aziraphale freezes in his path and stays silent for a few minutes. Then, when he finally speaks up, his voice is taut and tense, hinting at all the emotions crudely held back. “When?” he asks.

“Uh… before Eden.”

“Was it… on the East Gate? In Heaven?”

Crowley is watching the angel from under his shades now, taking care to keep his answers as short and non-triggering as possible. “Yes,” he says, and gives no more detail. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to know, because it would be painful for both of them, because it would be yet another superfluous _thing_ to overcome, because…

But before Crowley knows what is happening, Aziraphale is already grabbing at his shoulders, asking him to tell him everything.

And Crowley wants to resist. He wants to tell Aziraphale to stop it, stop pushing them towards more suffering. It’d be better if they leave the past to the past, and just bloody well enjoy the present. But the unfortunate thing is, his body reacts faster than his mind, and by the time he realises it, the truth has already left his lips.

He can do nothing now, except brace himself for Aziraphale’s reaction.

_He’s probably going to cry._

But the extraordinary thing is, Aziraphale does not cry. In fact, the angel doesn’t even have a hint of guilt on his face. The only thing that really sinks into his expression, as comfortably as Crowley does into his favourite armchair, is realization.

“...Oh.” Aziraphale says.

“I…don’t understand,” Crowley exclaims, giving up on any pretense for nonchalance. This is too important for him to fake anything. “Why aren’t you a sobbing wreck right now?!”

Aziraphale shoots him a half-hearted glare, but from the way his grip loosens, Crowley knows he isn’t paranoid anymore. “Because I’ve been there already,” the angel replies matter-of-factly.

“I remember that time period, before Eden,” Aziraphale continues. “I just…don’t remember that fight. Almost none of the angels in Heaven do.”

Crowley, dumbfounded, stares straight at Aziraphale.

“Word is that, not long after you… left, the Almighty sent all the demons back to Hell; it was rather a powerful blast. Many of us lost our memories.”

“Ahh,” Crowley is beginning to see the missing pieces now. “So that’s why you didn’t recognise me on the wall?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale stammers a bit, looking down towards the road and starting to walk again so he could avoid Crowley’s eyes. “And…I actually had been feeling guilty for a long time before we met…” he adds, after a moment’s hesitation, “I just didn’t know why.”

He meets Crowley’s gaze then, and the demon is once again surprised by how easily Aziraphale is taking all this. _He’s smiling._

And as if that isn’t enough, Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and reaches for Crowley’s hand. “Thank you, my dear.” he says.

It takes a while for Crowley to regain consciousness. Currently, his head is mostly screaming, _What is going on??!!!_ but, accustomed to its constant chaos, still somehow manages to make him say, “Wh- whatever for?”

“For telling me this,” Aziraphale replies in that straightforward way of his. “You’ve no idea what a knot you have untied in my heart.”

Crowley's mind goes completely blank. “Ahhhhh ummmm, you’re welcome.” he stutters.

As if satisfied, Aziraphale turns back towards the road and continues his usual chatter; though Crowley notices he still hasn’t let go of his hand.

The demon takes this chance to marvel (once again) at just how much they both have changed. Aziraphale, ever since his discorporation, has gained a tendency to show his thoughts with a much stronger resolution. Which is good in many situations, including stopping the Apocalypse. Indeed, it probably doesn’t even have a downside; except Crowley’s mind isn’t used to it yet. Hence whenever Aziraphale starts acting like this--all quick impulses and decisive words--Crowley can’t help but feel puzzled over whether he finds that hot, or if his mind is just too adapted to Aziraphale’s past mode of self-expression.

Hopefully the latter.

He gives a quick glance to their hands, still clasped rather awkwardly together. There really is nothing much to be scared of, now that no one cares anymore. Aziraphale was right. He should be, and he hopes he is, taking bolder strokes too.

Slowly, tentatively, he interlaces their fingers.

And oh, how their fingers fit together! Crowley doesn’t even attempt to hide the absolute _fondness_ that immediately starts rising in him, crashing through him like a strange tsunami: the best of its kind, one that he welcomes with open arms. He no longer has the capacity to care if Aziraphale notices his reaction. With the aid of a passing lamp post, he sees Aziraphale’s face: a faint blush has coloured his cheeks, adding even more warmth to this cold night. 

_Omg. I really want to kiss him right now._

The thought crosses Crowley's mind so fast he almost carries it out. Though of course, he catches himself at the last moment. When it comes to issues about the heart, he knows Aziraphale wants to take it slow. 

He doesn’t mind. While his body may crave for more, his mind knows full well that _this_ is already more than enough.

* * *

They walk past some buskers playing old jazz. And maybe it’s the music, or the streetlight illuminating Crowley’s face, or something else; but Aziraphale stops them just as they walk beneath it.

“My dear, can I ask you a favour?”

“Uh…yeah?” _Oh no. What’s wrong this time?_

“Can you…stop wearing your sunglasses?”

And Crowley is caught dumbstruck again. _Really, Aziraphale’s candidness is going to take some getting used to._

“Uhhh, why?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I know you want to blend in among the humans,” he takes a breath, and adds, quickly, “Which is a good thing.”

“Yeah, but?”

The angel looks up then, and Crowley can see all his emotions in his eyes, that same _fondness_ splayed naked across his face…as Aziraphale closes the distance between them. “But I miss...” he hesitates. “I miss the best part of you.”

And with that, Crowley’s mind has officially become a blown out fuse. He can sense _something_ hanging heavy and unspoken between them, but from there on his brain just stops functioning.

_What am I supposed to do?_

For once, though, Aziraphale is the one who doesn’t miss a beat. The angel raises one hand and, as tentatively as Crowley did with their hands, lifts the sunglasses from Crowley’s eyes.

And Crowley suddenly feels as if he’s just walked from the shade into the midday sun. Not literally, of course, but the smile that comes onto Aziraphale’s face, the way his dimples show up, the way crinkles start to appear around his eyes… At that moment, Crowley really thinks he’s looking at the brightest beacon in the whole universe.

“There you are, darling,” the angel says, barely louder than a whisper, so that only Crowley hears him.

And Crowley had words to say. Some kind of cool reply, probably. But he can barely remember them.

He just… really, _really,_ wants to kiss Aziraphale. _But is it the right thing to do? Is Aziraphale up for that? If so, how would I know?_

He doesn’t want to lose this… _thing._ He doesn’t want to break the moment, but he doesn’t want to, in Aziraphale’s words, go “too fast” either. (And the jazz in the background is absolutely not helping.) If he could, he would’ve just frozen this moment forever.

But the one thing he doesn’t notice, not until he feels Aziraphale’s breath on his chin, is that he was leaning towards the angel this whole time.

He _wants_ to.

His mind flashes back to Eden again, when he was hesitating to speak his mind, but ended up speaking it anyway. He remembers how he had risked getting smitten, how he had been so nervous inside; and how that leap of faith had earned him such an invaluable companion.

He was brazen then, and he will be brazen now; especially when he knows (hopes) Aziraphale would turn any cringey experience into endearing memories. Crowley leans forward, and closes the last inch between them.

He can literally _hear_ the cheer his body gives as their lips touch; it’s as if he was standing right in the middle of one of his many stars. He never knew lips could fit together so well like this, never knew how his body would move so _automatically_ and pull the angel close…never knew he could be _hungry_ like this.

To Crowley, Time’s domain ended where their lips met. He feels like they’ve been transported to a whole other universe that only belongs to them, where cruel things like Time and Death aren’t even permitted to exist. Crowley, with his eyes closed in pure delight, finds that one of his hands has grabbed a fistful of Aziraphale’s coat, while the other is busy raking through the angel’s hair, just the way he’s always wanted to. He can feel Aziraphale moving his arms up his body: tracing his jawline, cupping his cheek, sending a shudder throughout the demon’s body.

_How is he even better than me at this?_

But…no matter. Nothing matters anymore, not as long as Aziraphale is with him.

He doesn’t break the kiss until his mind has regained enough consciousness to work. (Definitely not because he wants to think of something good to say.) He smiles down at the angel, almost loses himself in those blue, _blue_ eyes again, and says, “Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and grins to the bad joke. “Stop quoting yourself.”

“Angel, you’re supposed to say the next line!”

“You and I both know, dear, that doing so would be extremely cliche.”

“Well that’s a first,” Crowley murmurs.

“What’s that, dear?”

“Nothing!”

Across the street, a distant cheer piques Crowley’s attention. Upon taking a closer look, he realises that it was the jazz buskers: they had just witnessed the whole thing, and are now whistling and whooping.

Crowley feels heat rising up his face. He motions to miracle the band away, but Aziraphale stops him just in time. “Let them be,” he says, the fond expression still on his face. “They won’t notice your eyes.”

“Or the fact that I’m supposed to be freezing to death?”

“Darling--”

“Or your strangely white hair?”

“My dear, just _relax_ ,” Aziraphale says as he interlinks one of their hands. “No one’s judging you.”

Crowley pouts and tries not to sulk. No, it is _not_ cool. No one should see his vulnerability without his consent.

The angel notices this, but instead of the usual, amiable silence, which Crowley very much enjoys (and craves now), he says, “You look very handsome tonight.”

“Aziraphale, _shut up_.”

“And you’re very charming.”

Crowley tries (to no avail) to stop his rising beet-red blush. Okay, it’s sweet, he’s trying to cheer him up, but any more and his legs would probably stop working.

To make matters worse, the jazz band starts playing another song.

_Not helping!_

But as Aziraphale leads him to a very awkward dance, he just can’t bring it in himself to decline…

* * *

The stars seem to burn particularly bright tonight.

Especially a certain Alpha Centauri.

_When you're in my arms_

_And I feel you so close to me_

_All my wildest dreams came true_

_I need no soft lights to enchant me_

_If you will only grant me_

_The right to hold you ever so tight_

_And to feel in the night_

_The nearness of you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that ending!! It's been a wonderful time writing this chapter and I hope you liked it as well!! If so, please do leave a comment!!
> 
> In case y'all didn't know where Crowley's line came from, it was from the first kiss scene between Romeo and Juliet ;)
> 
> The song lyrics came from Ella Fitzgerald's ["The Nearness of You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhaCNIpAnPs), and as always, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://supermutantgerm.tumblr.com) where I have occasional frantic bursts of reblogs. Of other people's posts. :)


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